I looked at him in irritation when he said that, my patience with this superstitious blather rapidly deserting me. "They did," I replied. "You were there when my father mentioned it. Uther stopped his men to allow them to clean up before riding into Camulod." He looked at me then and shook his head wryly before reminding me that my father had spoken in Latin, which was incomprehensible to him.
We walked together as far as my quarters, and as we walked I mulled over what he had said, wondering how much of it was fact and how much Celtic fancy. Those chests would be valuable, indeed, if they existed and if we could locate them. I decided I would speak to Uther about that stop on the road, if I ever saw him again. And then I wondered again where he was, knowing how he would mourn my father's death and regret missing the funeral.
I found Lucanus waiting for me in my quarters. He glanced at me critically and asked me how I was feeling. When I told him I was well, but not looking forward to the proceedings of the next few hours, he looked relieved.
"None of Us are," he said. "Titus asked me to come by and speak to you. He forgot to mention one last suggestion when you spoke together earlier. He thinks it might be fitting if you were to wait with the Lady Luceiia at her house, and bring her to join the proceedings when everyone else is assembled. He will send an honour guard to escort the two of you as chief mourners."
I agreed to do that, thanked him for his courtesy and set about dressing.
I can remember almost nothing of my father's funeral, apart from scattered impressions that struck me at the time and stayed locked in my mind: the silent presence of the dense- packed crowd, bearing their own grief over lost loved ones and their palpable aura of bereavement; the heavy sound of iron-shod feet marching in slow cadence to the throb of martial drums; the brazen fanfare of horns and bugles as the funerary bearers, eight senior centurions, slid the riveted iron coffin into the nest prepared for it among the pitch- glazed timbers; the creak of Popilius's heavy, polished- leather, ceremonial armour, as he stood at attention by my side; the spitting noise of the pitch-soaked torch as he stepped forward to light the pyre; and then the solid, roiling tower of smoke that ascended in yellow, grey and purple belches while its base was devoured and displaced by the searing, furious heat of the flames that glazed our eyes and beat against us even where we stood, behind the circle of the honour guard, twenty-five paces distant. And I remember the noise, the all-embracing, all-consuming, demented sound of the roaring, hissing flames that ate my father.
I know rain threatened, yet the sun shone throughout, but I remember nothing of that. I know, too, because he told me later, that Uther arrived back during the funeral, and, seeing the pall of smoke from afar, led his exhausted men at the charge against the attackers he immediately assumed were there. When they divined the true reason for the billowing column of smoke, he and his men approached quietly, leaving their mounts outside, and stood unnoticed at the rear of the crowd, which was already starting to disperse.
When it was over, I walked home in silence with Aunt Luceiia, then returned to my own quarters, where I removed my armour and slept for hours, awakening only after dark, refreshed and hungry.
I was surprised to find Uther in the refectory, eating alone. We greeted each other soberly. He told me how sorry he was about my father, but I merely nodded—there was nothing to say—and went to help myself to some food. I cut a thick chunk of mutton from a still-warm carcass on a spit over the glowing embers of a fire, and a substantial slab of bread to rest it on. The remains of some kind of vegetable stew, cooked in a meaty broth, were congealing in a pan by the fire. It looked unappetizing, but I spooned some of the lukewarm broth over my bread and mutton and took it back to where Uther sat. He pushed his platter away as I sat down, but stayed while I ate my own food, and as I ate, he talked, telling me of his pursuit of the fleeing remnants of Lot's army. He and his men had been merciless, killing every one of Lot's people they caught—he estimated the numbers they had slain in the course of two full days' pursuit in the hundreds. Finally, however, he had called in his forces and abandoned the chase when he learned from a dying Cornishman that Lot had never left the south-west.
He had heard the story of the; sorcerers and their hostages since his return, and his mention of it reminded me of Donuil's concern. I pushed away the remnants of my own food and sat back, looking around for a wine jug. There was one on a neighbouring table, and when I checked it I found it still half full. I took two cups, swilled them out, and poured for both of us. Uther held his high.
"Here's to your father, my Uncle Picus," he said, in a low voice. "He was a man among men. There are not many left of his kind. I wish I had come home two hours sooner." I joined him in the libation and we sat in silence for a while, until he asked me, "What are you thinking?"
"About the sorcerers." I had been sitting staring into my cup. "Caspar and Memnon. And their master, the spider, Lot. That whoreson will die at my hands. I have sworn it by my father's death."
"Then we had better ride together, Cousin, and it will be a race, for I've sworn the same oath."
I looked at him and we smiled together. "Then he's already a dead man," I said. "How had you planned to kill him?"
"Slowly, with any means at my disposal. Slowly and painfully. I want him to know at his end that he is dying, to know it is by my hand, and to beg me for the deliverance of death. And I'll refuse the whoreson."
I laughed for the first time in days, but I was far from amused. "You're almost as bad as he is!"
"No, Cousin, I am not. Lot is a pestilence who should not be alive." There was no sign of humour in his eyes. "Perhaps I was exaggerating about the manner of his death, but not about the certainty of it. This world will be a better place rid of his filth." He wrinkled his nose. "But you were thinking of the warlocks. Why? They are already dead. What profit dwelling on them?"
"Did you guard them closely on the journey here from Cornwall?"
"Guard them?" He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the question. "Well, yes and no. I detailed a man to keep an eye on them because I didn't like or trust them, but I didn't exactly chain them up. They were, after all, supposed to be ambassadors of some kind."
"Aye, they were that, indeed. Ambassadors of death."
"I had no way of knowing that at the time."
"No, you did not, nor could you. I'm not blaming you. But you did keep them under watch?"
He responded with a tiny shrug of one shoulder. "To a degree, yes. But they gave us no trouble, and we were on the move all the time. There was no real need to watch them closely."
"What about when you stopped?"
He looked at me warily, his curiosity stirring. "We stopped only to eat and sleep. What are you digging at, Cay?"
"Their baggage. Did you notice how much they had?"
"No. I could not have cared less about them, let alone their baggage. I had other things to worry about. They had their two servants, and two extra pack horses. Four men and six horses in all. My only concern was that they kept moving and didn't interfere with our progress. They did. Why? Did I miss something?"
"You may have. Young Donuil swears those two went nowhere without two particular, iron-bound, chained and locked boxes. Do you remember seeing anything like that?"
He shook his head, sticking out his lower lip. "No, but I told you, I paid no attention. What was in these boxes?"
"I don't know. They didn't bring them into Camulod. Donuil swears they contained the secret tools for their black arts."